The Song of David (25 page)

“Did you make that up, Henry?” I grinned.

Henry looked confused, as if making up sports trivia to support his arguments was impossible. Maybe it was. Maybe in Henry’s world, where lines and facts were clearly drawn, lying wasn’t even feasible.

“You’re already part of Tag Team, Henry,” I said gently. “You’ve got the shirt to prove it. I’ll get you as many as you want, in every color, and you can be in my corner any time.”

Henry tilted his head to the side, considering my offer, but the disappointment was evident in his expression. Millie turned around and, fumbling for the front door, exited the house in a rush.

“Millie!” I called after her, but she didn’t hesitate, and I could hear her stick clicking and clacking down the sidewalk in front of the house.

“Ah, Henry. You’ve gone and done it now.” I laughed, and my laughter surprised me. So did my relative non-reaction to the ‘M’ word. When girls started dropping hints about any type of commitment, it was always the last time I asked them out. Always. I was great at playing tag. No one ever caught me.

I guess I’d always thought I would marry someday. When I was eighty. Yet Henry was proposing, and it didn’t alarm me in the slightest. In fact, the thought of marrying Millie made my pulse quicken. It made my palms tingle. It made my heart smile so big I could feel the edges of the grin poking me in the ribs. That, or I was starting to feel the hurt from the Santos fight.

“
Because they both lost so many players to WWII military service, the Pittsburgh Steelers and Philadelphia Eagles combined to become the Steagles during the 1943 season,” Henry recited.

“What? The Steagles?” My eyes were on Henry, but I needed to chase Millie down.

Henry nodded, straight-faced. “We could do that. We could combine. We could be the Taggersons.”

“That’s a very interesting idea, Henry.” I nodded, biting my lip so I wouldn’t laugh. “But I need to convince Millie. I’m not sure she wants to be a Taggerson just yet.”

“Andert?” Henry offered another combination, wrinkling his nose, and then shaking his head, as if it didn’t have the same ring.

“Give me a minute to see what Millie thinks. Okay?”

Henry gave me a solemn thumbs up and sat down on the bottom stair to wait for the verdict.

I ran out the door and down the walk to the street, looking right and left down the sidewalk, hoping Millie hadn’t gone beyond where I could easily find her. I spotted her about half a block down.

“Millie!” She looked like she was headed for the church, and I loped to catch up, calling after her, feeling every single blow I’d taken that night as I chased her down.

“Millie! Wait, sweetheart. You’re killing me.” She stopped but didn’t turn around. She held herself stiffly, holding her stick vertically the way she’d held it the very first time I saw her outside the bar, the silent shepherdess once more.

“Millie.” I slowed to a walk and approached her, wrapping my hands around hers so we both clung to her stick, like two people on a subway, sharing the same pole. Then I pulled gently, taking the stick from her hands, so she would hold onto me instead.

“Why you runnin’ away?”

“The question is, why aren’t you?” she asked, biting her lip.

“Do you want to be a Taggerson, Millie?” I whispered, freeing her lip with my teeth and kissing it better.

“A what?” she breathed.

“Or maybe an Andert?” I brushed my mouth over hers again, and her lips opened slightly, waiting for me to apply a little pressure.

“Henry seems to think we should merge our names,” I explained.

Millie groaned, and I could feel the embarrassment coming off her in waves.

“Henry really needs to quit asking grown men to marry him,” she complained.

“Yeah . . . he’s a little young for that kind of commitment.” I pressed another kiss on her upper lip, then one on her lower lip, soothing her, reassuring her, and for several long minutes there was no conversation at all.

“David?” she whispered when I finally let her breathe.

“Yeah?” I sank back into her, not able to help myself. She tasted like cold water and warm wishes, and I was drowning and basking, my fight forgotten, the swelling on my cheekbone and the tenderness in my ribs completely non-existent.

“I’m in love with you,” Millie confessed softly. I felt her words on my lips and the shape of them in my head, and we both stood completely still, letting them whirl around us. The air was suddenly blooming, alive, a riotous explosion of color and sound. The world was magic, and I was king.

“I’m in love with you too,” I said, no hesitation whatsoever. The words slid out of my mouth with the absolute ease of total truth.

Holy shit.

I was in love with Amelie Anderson. I was in love with a blind girl, and everything was in sharp focus.

Millie drew back and smiled, a big, dazzling grin that had me smiling too.

“Does this mean you’ll wear my T-shirt?” I asked.

“Proudly,” she answered.

Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, the streetlight creating a pool of soft white around us, I kissed Millie with every intention of never letting her go. Ever.

I walked her back home and there was no more talk of Taggersons or Anderts that night. Millie sternly informed Henry that he was too young for marriage, and he would just have to be happy with the T-shirt. He’d seemed a bit irritated by that, and I shrugged at him, like it wasn’t my decision. I made sure he had a T-shirt for every day of the week, and one for Ayumi too, and that seemed to appease him slightly.

But the seed had been planted.

I’d only known Millie for two months, yet I was surer of her than I’d ever been of anything in my life. I was halfway down the aisle and just waiting for her to catch up with me.

IN THE DAYS that followed the Santos fight, things got more hectic, not less, and the frenzy had me running on empty. I was tired for the first time in my life. It was kind of a strange sensation. I found that I really just wanted to be with Millie and Henry, and I spent more time at their place than my own. In fact, it started to feel like home. So much so that I fell asleep on the couch one night watching a game with Henry, and woke up to music.

Millie sat on the floor in the middle of the living room, her back to me, and her guitar cradled in the well of her folded legs. The game was clearly over, and Henry had obviously given up on me and gone to bed. I would have to make it up to him, though I didn’t mind missing the game. I’d never been much of a spectator anyway. I preferred to play.

I watched Millie pick her way through a couple songs, her head tilted toward the guitar like she liked the way the strings squeaked. She held the guitar upright, the neck almost vertical, and I listened, not commenting, letting her think I was still sleeping. She was always surprising me. I knew she could play, but she was pretty damn good.

“Why haven’t you ever played for me before?” I asked quietly, my voice drowsy and content.

“You’re awake,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

“I’m awake, you’re beautiful, and you need to come here.”

She ignored me, her fingers finding their way across the strings. “If you were a chord, David, what chord would you be?” she mused, playing one chord after another.

I listened as she experimented.

“Oh, here’s a good, sad one,” she said, strumming softly.

“You think I’m sad?” I asked.

“Nah. Definitely not. That’s not your chord. No minor chords for you.”

“Absolutely not. I’m a major chord all the way. A major chord and a major stud.” She laughed and I sighed. I didn’t know what time it was, but the golden glow of the nearby lamp and the warm strings made my eyes heavy and my heart light.

“This is Henry’s chord.” Millie played something dissonant and curious, and I laughed out loud because it made total sense. “But you would be something deeper,” she added.

“Because I’m a sexy man,” I drawled.

“Yep. Because you’re a sexy man. And we would want something with a little twang to it.”

“Because I’m a sexy Texan.”

“A sexy Utah Texan.” She tried a few more, laughing and scrunching up her nose as she tried to find just the right chord. “And we need something sweet.”

“Sweet and violent?” I asked.

“Sexy, twangy, sweet and violent. This might be more difficult than I thought,” she said, still giggling.

She strummed something full and throaty, picking over each string and then strumming them together. “There it is, hear that? That’s Tag.”

“I like it,” I said, pleased.

She stretched her hand, her pinky finger clinging to the bottom string and the chord changed subtly, another layer, a slightly different sound, like the chord wasn’t quite yet resolved. “And that’s David.”

I sat down behind her on the floor and grabbed her folded thighs, pulling her back into me so that I cradled her the way she cradled the guitar. She leaned back against my chest, tucked her head to one side of my chin, and continued fingering the chords she’d named after me.

“Let me hear your song, Millie.”

“You mean my chord?”

“Nah. Your song. You’re a woman. Women don’t have just one chord.”

She laughed softly and bopped me in the head with the neck of the guitar. “I’m glad you know that, but I’m kind of wishing you didn’t know quite so much about women. Makes me wonder how you gained all that knowledge. And I get a little jealous.”

“I grew up with three sisters and one very opinionated, feisty mother. I learned early.”

“Good answer, big guy.”

“It’s the truth, sweetheart. So play it. Play your song.”

“I haven’t written it yet.”

“Will you put my chord in your song?”

“Why does that sound so suggestive?” She was smiling, but there was something wistful in her voice.

“Because I’m a sexy man.”

“I’ll put your chord in my song. Both of them, Tag and David. And I’ll put Henry’s in it too.”

“What about your mom? Did she have a chord?”

Millie moved her hand immediately and played something warm and soft, something happy yet plaintive. “That’s my mom, that chord there. Do you recognize it?”

I thought for a minute. “Is it part of her song?”

“It’s part of an old country song. It’s the very first chord of ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.’”

I sang a couple bars of the song. I knew it well.

“That’s it. I love that song. My mom had blue eyes, just like me and Henry. And she didn’t spend a lot of time crying, thank goodness. She spent a lot of time loving. But there was longing in her too. She wanted to protect us. She wanted to save us from hurt. She wanted to give us back the things that had been taken from us or denied us. She longed for it. And she couldn’t do it. No matter how much she loved us, she couldn’t do it.”

“I guess none of us can.”

“No. None of us can. She told me something before she died, and I think about it sometimes when I’m having a hard time. She said that all her life she just wanted to save us from suffering. That was her job as a mom—save us from suffering, but we suffered anyway.” Millie paused as if she were remembering the conversation, and I wanted to kiss her mouth, kiss that lower lip that trembled just a bit with the emotional memory. I pressed my lips to the curve of her cheek instead, afraid that if I kissed her mouth I’d never hear the end of her story.

“And then she said, ‘I wanted to save you and Henry from suffering, but I’ve come to realize that your suffering has made you better people.’ She was dying, and she was watching us come to terms with the fact that we were going to lose her.”

“And what do you think? Does suffering make us better people?” I asked.

“It all depends on the person, I suppose,” she mused.

“Maybe it depends on the amount of suffering too,” I added, stroking a hand over her hair.

“And whether you have people holding your hand along the way, sharing the burdens, shouldering some of the pain.” She leaned into my hand.

“Did you have that, Millie?” I asked quietly.

“I did. My mom may not have been able to keep me from suffering, and I certainly couldn’t keep her from suffering, or Henry, for that matter. But we loved each other, and that made the suffering bearable.”

“I want to be that for you, Millie. I want to carry you. I want you to give it all to me,” I said, and then sang a little Rolling Stones in her ear, changing the lyrics just a bit.

“Let me be your beast of burden, my back is broad to ease your hurtin,’” I sang, kissing her earlobe. I would love her and keep her safe, and I swore to myself then that I would do the impossible. There would be no more suffering for Amelie Anderson. I would be the one shouldering all the shit.

She let me nuzzle her neck for a minute, humming happily.

“There are some other words in that song, David. He asks if he’s enough. If he’s enough for her. So I am asking you, Tag. Am I enough? Because I’m not too blind to see.”

The bridge of the song she quoted cartwheeled through my mind and I shook my head, amazed. I’d forgotten the line about being too blind.

“Am I tough enough? Am I hard enough?” I sang, more than a little turned on.